


12 Angry Men

by murilegus



Series: 12 Angry Heroes [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Get Smart - All Media Types, Monk (TV), NCIS, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, all our heroes in one room, all the puns!, timelines? Screw the timelines., what will happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murilegus/pseuds/murilegus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 Angry Men are called in for jury-duty. They just happen to be somewhat special men.... Very special, in fact.<br/>In other words, not enough crossovers that put multiple geniuses in one room so here you go! :D<br/>This is less plot-driven and more of a crack-feast, so it can be read despite not being finished. I am working on reaching the end but my muses seem to have gone on vacation along with the ones that used to help McGee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Annoying brothers and undercover agents are a pain.

Twelve angry men were about to withdraw into a room to decide whether they believed an accused man guilty of murder or not.

Why were they angry, you might wonder? For various different reasons, and most of them not at all that related to the actual case they had to sit in as a jury for.

First in the row to leave the courtroom, juror number 1, Doctor John Watson, was angry at life in general and his cane in particular. Yes, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was not in a good mood and could definitely break your nose if given an excuse –cane or no cane!

Juror number 2, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective (consulting horror according to Sgt. Donovan), had spent most of the time in his mind palace in revenge on his brother for not pulling strings in the government and getting him out of this tedious affair (it was barely a two). Having been surrounded by stupidity for several hours while an exciting experiment on tobacco ash (243 identified types so far) was waiting for his attention was a justified reason for an angry sulk according to Sherlock. Stupid Mycroft.

Juror nr 3, Dean Winchester, would also blame his anger on a sibling. His little brother had blatantly walked out on the family business and was going to study law at Stanford University. Dean had elaborate plans on finding an excuse to break into his nerdy brother´s apartment –preferably in the middle of the night- for a beer or two. In his most hopeful scenarios it would end with the two of them driving off in his Baby (a 1967 Impala, a pure gem) in hunt of adventures. In his more reality-based ones he usually ended up being attacked with a baseball-bat.

Did all the jurors have annoying brothers?

Well, no, although juror number 4 had more than enough of them. Ruffled feathers and back-stabbing had been the norm in his family ever since Castiel Novak´s father had disappeared without a trace. Sometimes he felt like locking the oldest two up in a dark box somewhere would be the only way to regain his valued peace and quiet for this poor baby in a trenchcoat.

Adrian Monk was the fifth member of the jury, and perhaps not angry as much as upset and quite frankly terrified of all the bacteria and the disorder he was encountering. The thought of Mr. Monk locked up in a room full of strangers without his assistant scared (and amused) his occasional co-workers as well, and had even caused a betting pool on disastrous outcomes. The office that the previously mentioned Sherlock Holmes was working with, on the other hand, had an ongoing pool to start with, which was probably the main reason he did not get a new one as well.

Our sixth juror, however, was properly angry and frustrated, as his muses seemed to have taken a holiday (probably to Rota in Spain or to a sunny beach in Mexico), and thus his writing was going nowhere. Timothy McGee, better known as Thom E. Gemcity, was at his wits end, and to add salt to the wound he had a publicist who could probably give lessons to the hellhounds of the king of hell himself. Oh woe the life as a creative artist!

Like McGee, juror 7, Maxwell Smart, also had a secret identity. CONTROL Agent 86 was always on the look-out for traces of KAOS and their sinister plans. He was also angry, because his boss had refused to let him bring agent K-13 as backup on what appeared to be a quite dangerous undercover assignment. It was clearly the old trick of pretending to call him in for jury duty and then attack once he lowered his shields. HAH! As if he, the number one (well, 86) agent of CONTROL would fall for that! No, he would figure out who the KAOS men were and report to agent 44 who was hiding in the trashcan in corridor four. Just you wait for it!

Agent 44 was waiting for it.


	2. lacking technology and family history can make anyone angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of this chapter is a little darker, but then again, the last two people in the jury have pretty awful background stories.

The rest of the Jury did not have annoying siblings, but managed to be angry all the same. Human beings can be fascinating things.

One of them, Juror 8, Tony Stark – yes that Tony Stark, of Stark Industries – was almost vibrating in place from the lack of modern technology in the entire building. He had nearly started hitting his face against the desk in front of him when the defense had rolled out an actual over-head at one point. Only a slight head shake from his ever so efficient assistant had stopped him from groaning out loud. Did overheads actually exist outside of museums anymore?

Next to him, Juror 9 had unsuccessfully tried to flirt with … well practically everyone he had come across from the time he entered the building up until now. And nothing to show for it, not even a phone-number from the cute receptionist on floor one! Life was being incredibly cruel to poor Captain Jack Harkness. At one point, the hot Juror in the brown suit had stopped him after just saying “Hello…” to a blonde chav they passed in a corridor. On the other hand, that girl looked as if she might have possibly been something of a girlfriend to the Juror in question. But come on: three-way, anyone?

The Juror that had managed to upset his companion was fittingly enough angry because of the others in the group. Not ONE was paying any actual attention to the case, not even giving the poor boy a chance, writing him off as unimportant. 10 had never, through all his years, met anyone who wasn’t important, and he was set on making the jury give the accused an actual fair chance now that they were withdrawing!

10, or Doctor John Smith as he called himself – let’s just stick with just calling him the Doctor (a name like John Smith is so very obviously fake) – was a rather odd fellow. He did not look his true age: maybe he had been through a dozen or so very effective make-overs?

Brown suit, sandshoes, and a left eyebrow that could cause videos on Youtube in its honour, the man stuck out worse than a blue police box in London would. He was the kind of person that could change his mind, start wearing a bowtie and make everyone else think they are cool. Maybe not a fez, but then again, it is not as if fezzes just randomly pop out of the air without warning.

 

When the jury reached the room where they would decide on the fate of the accused, the last two to enter the room were jurors 11 and 12, and they could not have looked more like day and night if they would have tried.

Where Juror 11 had an impeccable suit and perfectly styled hair, Juror 12 wore a polo shirt under his jacket and had a military haircut. Even the expressions were the very opposites, with the younger Juror flashing a million dollar grin at any given opportunity (and could probably give juror 9 a fair run for his money when it came to flirting). The grey-haired Juror 12 on the other hand looked as if he was trying to scowl the world into submission.

Surprisingly enough, the two were actually quite alike in many aspects. Both were angry (what a surprise) and both were wearing masks to shield themselves from the world. Playing at being a clown, or just plain scaring everyone off in the first place – the result was the same: no-one got close, and no-one could hurt them again. Mission accomplished.

Juror 11, Anthony “Tony” DiNozzo, had learned that people you let in close would just break your heart from a very early age. Losing his mother to illness and then being disowned by his very own father at age 12, the ever-changing stepmothers and the neglect he faced was almost overkill when it came to teaching him this lesson.

It had also meant Tony had never worked in the same place for longer than two years in a row, and was not gonna start doing that any time soon either!

Juror 12 had more recent wounds, from losing his beloved wife and daughter to a man with a gun and a prison-sentence hanging over his head if Mrs. Shannon Gibbs were to testify against him in a drug-cartel case. Little Kelly Gibbs had been collateral damage when he had eliminated the threat, and ruined the lives of three people with a couple of shots against a car.

Yes, burying his wife and daughter had left Leroy Jethro Gibbs a changed and angry man, seeking to punish anyone who dared commit a crime that he would come across. The young man who had stabbed his own father to death would suffer for it: that much Gibbs knew, when he stepped across the threshold into the stuffy little room with the rest of the jury…


	3. bad pick-up lines, worse puns, and uncomfortable chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve Angry Men sitting down takes a lot of time. A. Lot. Of. Time.
> 
> *whispers* it took the whole chapter *runs and hides*

Twelve angry men were in the process of sitting down around the table in the room. John Watson with an I-dare-you-to-try-and-help-me glare fixed on his neighbour while he was maneuvering his cane and the chair around, feeling about as happy as someone listening to Vogon poetry. His glare was admittedly lost on the world´s only consulting detective flopping down in the chair next to him with a look on his face that could probably curdle milk. For Sherlock Holmes, though, Vogon poetry would not have had anything on the levels of stupidity in this room. The sooner he could make his dramatic escape the better. At least everyone in his close proximity looked like they were determined to vote Guilty, so this might be over fairly quickly even with their funny little brains at work.

On the other side of the table, Adrian Monk was busy wiping down his chair and the table in front of him with an antiseptic paper cloth. At least this would be an improvement, albeit small, for the hygiene of the place and help get rid of a bit of the no doubt thriving bacterial flora where he would have to survive. Disposing of the dirty cloth proved to be a rather horrific experience, though. Monk would have to persuade his assistant make some calls to the cleaning company of the place and provide some ideas on how to improve things for everyone´s comfort.

Returning to his chair, Monk almost started keening as the suit clad DiNozzo had thrown up his feet on the table next to the spot where he would sit. Thankfully, the old marine that had been the last to enter the room simply provided a head-slap and a pointed finger in Monk´s direction before the man returned his feet to the floor. They might still be spreading germs around down there, but at least everyone else had a bit of protection by wearing shoes of their own. Feeble as the protection might be.

McGee was sitting down in what can be considered a “normal” way. He was still wishing for his muses to return from Out of the Deep. Maybe if he attempted to write a story about mermaids, but called them fin-kin? Then again, something like that would surely not make for more than a couple of chapters in a very short book. No, new ideas wanted, dead or alive. Dead… hmm… maybe if he made the main characters die a couple of times? But then, that would turn the story far too supernatural for someone to want to read it. Reality was hard on a poor writer.

Meanwhile, Tony Stark figured a suit made of metal would be more comfortable than the chairs in the room. He also wished he had J.A.R.V.I.S. there to turn the up air-condition, at least. The oxygen levels in the room would soon start to rapidly decrease, while the temperature was already rising. The Doctor solved the problem by opening up a window. The windows were technically bolted shut, but a sophisticated screwdriver could fix most such annoying little details without a problem.

“I have sat through 29 cases like this, and I have never seen such a blatantly open and shut one before. Can you believe it? 29!”

“Are you sure it wasn’t 69?”

This short conversation was thankfully interrupted when the Doctor sat down between Harkness and the undercover agent. Knowing that flirting with the Doctor was futile, the captain turned around to the man in the tan overcoat on his other side.

“So, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“It hurt, he landed on his face!” the green eyed devil sitting next to the angel replied.

Castiel Novak turned around to look at his unruly neighbor.

“You should show me some respect.”

What followed next was a stare-down that would make anyone (apart from a script-writer) start cat-calling and whispering among themselves about the true love shining through their eyes. At this point, it was admittedly still only anger and contempt, but since there was no-one there who wrote about it, that is sort of a moot point.

A bit like “Schrödinger´s script”, Tony DiNozzo would have contributed, if there had been any discussion of the matter. “Does an ‘I love you’ in a script make something canon, if it does not make the final version and is therefore not shown to the audience?”

There were actually two people in the room with the potential to write an overly romanticized version of the events in the room. Sadly, McGee had by now turned his attention to the sulking detective --- ehm, that is, to the Consulting Detective across the table, and was imagining him in the role of a Dark Lord on his dark Throne.

The second writer was Joh Watson, and he had so far only contributed with a couple of blogposts to an unwilling audience. The posts had mostly been variations on the themes “nothing happens to me” and “look Ella, I’m writing”. He would still need that final little drop that makes the water flow over before he got started with his career in writing.

But with the people gathered in the room, he would probably get a whole Reichenbach-sized waterfall at his convenience a lot sooner than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos if you spotted the shout out to the awesome and super-long Destiel fic McGee is musing about :D


	4. Here we go, Allons-y!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Jury starts a vote, but surprisnly enough (or not) it does not have the expected outcome.

Tony Stark took upon himself the (rather natural) role as the spokesman of the group, once everyone had settled down.

“I assume we are all eager to get this over and done with. I propose a quick vote to see how we all stand, and hopefully we all agree on the verdict and can go home to more important stuff. Anyone have anything to add before we vote?”

“Could we all sit down in order left to right according to height, now it is all a mess and it makes it difficult to conce…” Monk began before he was interrupted by Stark.

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t know if I am fully satisfied with the security of this room, I must say” Agent 86 complained.

“What do you mean?” DiNozzo asked with confusion.

“Well it is supposed to be a Secret conversation, isn’t it? Back in my office, we have a Cone of Silence for sharing confidential information, and it hasn’t malfunctioned once. Can you believe it? Not once!”

“No I don’t believe it” Tony Stark groaned. “Those things, unlike the products of my company, are complete rubbish. They break down before they even leave the factory!”

“Would you believe it worked once for five minutes before the chief fainted from lack of air?”

“Oh for Fëanors sake, can we get on with it?” Doctor Watson suddenly shouted.

(Yes, I changed that into a name from the Silmarillion. Your young ears should be protected until you are old enough to read all twelve volumes of the History of Middle Earth.)

After his outburst, the former captain apologized for his outburst.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry; it’s just sometimes, this Balin leg…”

(Why yes, dear reader, I censored again. John Watson sure has a foul mouth to go with those cuddly jumpers.)

“Your therapist did tell you it is psychosomatic, I hope” the consulting detective huffed, not completely unlike a dragon puffing smoke through his nostrils.

“How did you know about my therapist?”

“It’s obvious. Haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. New cane and tan-lines say recent action. You limp really badly when you walk, or think about it, but you had no trouble standing when the Judge walked in, as if you had forgotten about it.

So it is at least partly psychosomatic, and the original injury was probably acquired during traumatic circumstances, which, considering the tan on your face and hands means battle in the Middle East.

War hero returning from battle with a psychosomatic limp – of course you have a therapist.”

The rest of the room was sharing the incredulous look that Watson wore on his face when Sherlock Holmes had finished his monologue. Most were horrified by the intrusion into the poor soldier´s private life, and some were worried they were next in line for a similar dissection.

It is therefore hard to say who was more surprised, Sherlock Holmes himself or the rest of the Jury, when Watson didn’t open his mouth to say “Fëanor off!” but instead started smiling and said “That was amazing!”

“Wow, you are worse than that character that Robert Downey Junior plays in A Game of Shadows” DiNozzo exclaimed.

“Who?” Castiel asked in confusion.

“Dude, how can you NOT have seen Game of Shadows?” Dean Winchester moaned. “Next thing you’ll say you haven’t even watched Doctor Sexy.”

“I haven’t seen either.”

Winchester and DiNozzo shared a despairing look, before Gibbs decided to they had spent enough time on unrelated business.

“Focus! Can we get on with it now? I vote Guilty! Next person.” He held up a hand in the air.

“Guilty, I guess.” Said DiNozzo and raised his as well.

“Guilty as Fëanor!” (Winchester could have a pretty foul moth too).

Castiel grimaced at his neighbour´s behavior, but raised his hand too, with a clear “Guilty” to go with it.

“Guilty” said Watson, and raised his hand causing the cane to slip and hit the floor, much to his devastation.

“Guilty” the consulting detective said. “You know that’s not what people normally say,” he continued.

“What do you mean, they normally don’t say guilty?” Watson asked, confused.

“No, I meant instead of amazing they usually say piss off”

McGee, tired of being ignored and not recognized as a famous writer, decided to put an end to the conversation (which had progressed to the detective and the doctor just grinning at each other, anyway) and said his “guilty” with more force than probably needed.

Stark and Jack Harkness both said “Guilty” and raised their hands, and Monk, after a long uncomfortable looking series of grimaces said “Guilty” and raised his hand a few inches.

The Last person, therefore, took the whole group by surprise when he stated “Not Guilty.” and crossed his arms.

The Doctor had spoken.


	5. Missed it by THAT much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> our angry men argue with the Doctor about the case

The Doctor leaned back in his chair, waiting for the inevitable chaos to erupt. Later Agent 86 would tell 99 “we sat there for a full minute, just staring. Would you believe it? A FULL minute?” and he would not even be exaggerating too much.

“Missed it by THAT much” he now complained.

Dean Winchester almost started shouting once the silence was broken.

“Oh yeah? So what do you think killed him then? A ghost? A ghoul? That kid was totally guilty of murder , and going down for it!”

Gibbs growled. “You have two eye-witnesses and countless other evidence, and you are gonna let that murdering Barad-dur go free?”

“This reminds me of that old film with Henry Fonda” DiNozzo mused out loud to anyone who might listen.

No-one listened.

Sherlock Holmes took it as a personal insult.

“Are you suggesting I missed something? Me? The world’s only consulting detective? This case is barely a two!”

John Watson turned around to look at him.

“Well, to be honest, you weren’t really paying attention at all, were you?”

Turning back to face the Doctor instead he continued “But we have a knife that the accused bought the same day, and it is a perfect match to the wound that killed the old man. I’m a doctor, and I am sure about it; that knife was used for the killing blow.”

Looking back at Sherlock Holmes he asked the man in an undertone “what is a Consulting detective anyway? The police don’t consult amateurs?” which led to a hushed discussion between the two while the rest of the jury continued to argue about the actual case at hand.

“The old man in the apartment below heard the kid and his father argue, before he heard the thud of the body hitting the floor. He also saw the kid run down the stairs just some fifteen seconds later. He must be guilty unless the man lies, and why would he lie?” Castiel asked.

“When humans want something really bad, they lie, Cas” Dean said with a shrug to conceal how much his fingers itched to lean forward and correct the tie around Castiel´s neck.

“But he had nothing to gain from lying” Tony Stark argued.

“Unless he did it himself” McGee pointed out, but John Watson took a break from his conversation with Sherlock and shook his head.

“No, there is no way that wound was inflicted by an old man with arthritis and a lame leg from a stroke. He simply was neither strong nor quick enough to take on the victim in a fight face to face and win.”

“And what about our cute witness from across the street who says she SAW the kid stab his father?” Jack Harkness exclaimed.

“Don’t forget about how the shop-keeper stated the knife was a one of a kind, and positively identified it as the one he had sold to the accused the same day!”

“The knife he conveniently lost on his way back from the cinema he claims is his alibi. Rule 39, there is no such thing as coincidence” Gibbs said with a frown.

Monk was about to discuss the relevance of the missing fingerprints on the knife in question, but was interrupted by DiNozzo.

“Yeah, and he could not even remember the names of the actors of the movie he claimed to have seen when the police interrogated him about his alibi before they arrested him. I mean, who doesn’t know Van Diesel plays Groot in Guardians of the Galaxy?”

By this point, Agent 86 was busy making elaborate plans on contacting his chief and informing him that the man named John Smith possibly was an undercover KAOS agent. It was the old trick of choosing a name that sounded so fake everyone would assume it had to be real!”

“Could we perhaps go through the evidence systematically and prove the case like that to Doctor Smith?” Monk suggested once it was clear the chaos had died down a little.

“Right, and if we prove the evidence is solid, then will you vote Guilty so we can get home this year?” Stark asked the Doctor.

“A proper look through the evidence and all of you paying actual attention to the case is all I ask for” the Doctor agreed. “Where do you want to start?”

“’Begin at the beginning,’ the King said, very gravely, ‘and go on until you come to the end; then stop’” McGee said with a satisfied look on his face, quoting Carrol´s Alice in Wonderland.

“Yeah, thanks McGeek, really useful. Let’s just start with the knife” said DiNozzo.


	6. Eyebrows and doors with a temper

“Right, er, before we begin, excuse me for a moment while I visit the Gents!” Agent 86 said, trying to look incredibly inconspicuous.

“We’ll ask for the knife in the meantime,” said Stark, and left to call for the attendant.

Monk decided to risk a run to the bathroom a few seconds after Mr. Smart had closed the door to it. The sight that met him when he opened the door immediately made him regret this decision, and would probably have made him faint, had he been a lesser man. Now he only let out an undignified squeak (he would later deny this when he told his assistant about the event) and slammed the door shut again.

The poor door in question was quite frankly fed up with all this open-and-close business (it had a nasty temper in the mornings) and decided to break down into a sulk worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself. “I’m striking”, it declared, and proved it by locking itself shut so it could stay put and get some well-deserved sleep.

Meanwhile, Agent 86 had to abort the mission that had horrified Monk so terribly. He put his shoe back on his foot, and pretended to wash his hands (with some inconspicuous whistling while he was at it). He was musing about the mysterious sound he had heard blocking the signal when he tried to contact CONTROL headquarters, and was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost fell over when the door refused to open as he pulled the handle.

“Hey! Did someone lock the door?” he exclaimed.

 

On the other side of the troublesome door, Mr. Monk´s behavior had led to raised eyebrows. The Doctor raised his left eyebrow in the peculiar way that had earned it a tribute on Youtube – later in life, he would claim to have eyebrows that could take off bottle tops, but they weren’t quite at that stage yet.

“What’s up with him?” John wondered out loud to everyone in general and Sherlock in particular.

“Oh he probably just wandered in on the undercover CONTROL agent using the phone in his shoe. Amateur.” Sherlock answered, while rolling his eyes.

“Fantastic! How did you deduce that?” John exclaimed.

The Doctor was feeling a slight nostalgia over the word “fantastic”, while the rest of the group was more focused on the word “deduce” and its meaning. Apparently spending time talking with a Consulting Detective affected the vocabulary of the other person quite profoundly. Or, like Castiel would have put it, John had a "more profound bound" with Sherlock than the rest of them did.

Stark, of course, understood everything perfectly well, and silently vowed never to make an acquaintance that could not follow a simple deduction like that – seriously, it was like conversing with a person that had spent the last few decades deep frozen.

Sherlock, naturally, could not resist showing off for an appreciative audience (the police force at Scotland Yard said he could not resist showing off, period.).

“The CONTROL agent part was a child´s play,” he explained. "His shoes were quite new, but the model is utterly outdated, and the left one seemed heavier when he walked, while at the same time showing signs of being handled more frequently. Conclusion, he has something hidden in his shoe. Add the fact that he mentioned having a Cone of Silence in his office, which means going to ridiculous lengths trying to keep information secret – and failing at it, and you have an undercover agent with a phone in his shoe. 

“Cone of silence, impractical shoe-phone, and an agent who thinks one of us is a threat in some way – all clear signs of CONTROL having a finger in the game.”

“But how could you possibly figure that out from Monk there slamming the door shut?” DiNozzo argued.

“Oh, dear lord, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring! The agent went to the bathroom despite clearly not having a need to do so. He then does something that causes that bacteriofobe over there to clean his hand with an abundance of paper tissues.

“Undercover agent with a phone in his shoe excusing himself, causing an upset, but not evacuating or calling for help, bacteriofobe – of course he was using his phone!”

Gibbs was developing a headache after this monologue, and wished he was home with his boat and some bourbon. The others were ranging from offended but impressed (DiNozzo and McGee) to being in complete awe (John), and from being utterly bored and wanting to go home (Dean and Stark) to being fascinated by human beings and their behaviour (the Doctor and Castiel). 

Monk, obviously, was busy cleaning his hand after his unfortunate encounter with a handle that had been touched by a man who put his shoe next to his face on a frequent basis. Jack Harkness on the other hand was probably having thoughts about how Brainy was the new Sexy, a line that would have made The Woman smile, but it is best not to look too deeply into his mind without some effective censorship going on.

“That is not the important question, however,” Sherlock continued with a gleeful look on his face.

“Well what is?” Dean groaned.

“How do we get our agent out from the bathroom so we can start up and be done? It appears he has managed to lock himself inside it.”


	7. 12 inventive men and one stubborn door

The Doctor jumped off his chair and rushed over to the striking door. After trying the doorknob to see if it was actually locked (Clara would be so proud) he somehow produced an odd buzzing sound before complaining about wood and ancient locks.

Stark, who was still waiting for the attendant to return with the knife, nodded and silently vowed to never again spend time in a building without fingerprint readers. He was making many vows he’d later end up breaking on this particular day.

Jack Harkness and Sherlock Holmes bemoaned the security of the building, which had stopped them from bringing any useful tools with them (not for lack of trying). Useful, to Jack, meant his gun. Useful, to Sherlock, meant his lock-picks. The latter suspected that a certain Government (Mycroft) was to blame for all this. He usually was.

Dean, on the other hand, was not about to let time be wasted on complaints, and prepared to take a more direct course of action and kick the door open with his foot. To his surprise, he got interrupted by Castiel, who waved him aside.

“I’ve got this,” Castiel said, and slammed into the door shoulder first.

“I don’t got this,” he concluded a few seconds later, while rubbing the poor abused shoulder.

“If this was a movie, now would be the point when the hot chick takes a hair-pin from her perfect hair and opens the lock with it,” DiNozzo grinned. “You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?” he asked Gibbs.

Gibbs, the master of great silent comebacks, simply slapped the back of DiNozzo´s head.

“Ouch, shutting up, Sir!” DiNozzo whined.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” Gibbs growled.

“Nossir!” DiNozzo said with a thousand dollar smile before ducking to avoid adding a second head-slap to his quickly growing collection.

“If there is a lock, then there must be a key,” McGee mused.

Before DiNozzo had a chance to make any McKey jokes, Dean started laughing. “That sounded like an extremely cheesy line from a bad script,” he said, before doing a bad imitation of his brother in geek mode, lifting up one hand in the air and avoiding looking into an imaginary camera. “If there is a Key, then there must be a Lock.” He grinned at Castiel. “Did you think your shoulder was a key, Cas?”

Castiel, who was being looked over by the former army doctor, wore his I-am-utterly-unamused face in response.

“I should have known better than to land on a Thursday, Thursdays are boring!” the Doctor complained.

“Castiel is the angel of Thursday,” Sherlock declared. “No idea why I didn’t delete that information, it is completely useless…”

“Sherlock,” John grimaced when the face of his patient tried to imitate a tomato. “Timing.”

“Not good?” Sherlock asked, much to the surprise of the underpaid government worker who was secretly spying on the conversation.

“Bit Not Good, yeah,” John nodded.

“We could ask the attendant for a key when he returns with the knife,” Monk suggested.

“And let everyone know that twelve grown-up men were defeated by one stubborn door?” DiNozzo asked, aghast.

“Not happening!” concluded Dean, and gave the door a well-aimed kick with his foot, like he had planned to from the start.

The poor door now had a head-ache (or well, the door equivalent of one) that rivalled how the walls of Jericho must have felt after they crumbled, and made a change of plan. Instead of striking it would teach these human beings a lesson and fall right on top of them in an aggressive move that would have made Bobby Fischer get teary-eyed.

What actually happened was that it hit the floor with a big bang, hence giving a name to the Big Bang Theory, as there was a script writer who got inspiration knocked into him in the room right below.

Castiel had assumed the role of Dean´s Guardian Angel, and pulled him out of the way, while John used his reflexes to push the consulting detective, who was next in line to be hit, away from the danger zone.

The responses were varied.

“What was that?” Dean shouted from where he was sprawled out on top of Castiel, who had apparently under-estimated his strength and caused them both to topple over.

“I grabbed you tight and saved you from the falling door,” Castiel growled, a bit offended, making it sound like he had personally gone through the trouble of raising Dean from Hell itself or something in that style, and his protégé was being ungrateful and had just stabbed him in his chest with a knife. On closer inspection, it turned out to be an elbow, but still, it hurt!

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like he had just been handed three suicides and a note.

“I told you that limp was psychosomatic!” he exlaimed.

The door just groaned.


	8. A knife in the dark with the Pizza Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> knock knock knock knock

Whatever apologies Agent 86 were offering were lost when someone knocked four times on the door (not the one with the headache; the one leading out of the room). The Doctor, for some reason, visibly paled.

Stark opened the door with a “you’re late” in greeting of the old attendant. He only had people-skills when he wanted to, much to his co-worker´s despair.

“An attendant is Never late, Mister. Nor is he early; he arrives precisely when he means to!” came the gruff reply.

John interrupted what seemed to become yet another battle of stares. “Good Morning!” he exclaimed, trying to smooth things over while Stark took the knife from the bearded old man.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel… “

The old man did not have a chance to finish his sentence before Sherlock slammed the door in his face.  
“Yes, thank you for your input.”

“I sense awkwardness”, Castiel commented. Dean just rolled his eyes.

“So, the knife. Weird shape, unique, according to the prosecutor,” DiNozzo said with a thoughtful voice, and then proceeded to grab the knife from Stark and twirl it around in his hand. Gibbs handed out yet another headslap and took the knife while grumbling about treating evidence with respect. At this point, no-one could have made Monk touch the knife in question without wearing at least two pairs of protective gloves on his hands, no matter how unique a knife it was.

McGee looked through his notes, and refreshed everyones memories regarding the knife.  
"According to the prosecutor," he droned, "the knife was lying on the floor in the livingroom. It was a positive match to the fatal stabwound on the victim. Further, the knife is one of a kind and there were no fingerpr..."

"Wait, one of a kind?" Castiel interrupted. "Why, these blades are fairly common in some circles. I think everyone in my family have one."

"You have a knife, Cas?" Dean looked shocked. "You don't really look like the 'fighting' type, you know?" he elaborated when Castiel turned to him with a frown on his face.

"You didn't stab the stiff, I hope," DiNozzo joked, before ducking to avoid yet another contribution to his rapidly growing collection of headslaps. Seriously, soon he would definitely have the worst headache in the room, if this continued!

(The door quietly disagreed with that.)

"For the record, I was live on the radio at the time of the murder, and have a few thousand listeners that could vouch for me," Cas said in his usual super serious voice.

McGee, for some reason he would never be able to explain, suddenly envisioned Castiel saying "I will interview the cat" with the exact same expression and tone. He cancelled this thought quicker than Fox cancelled Firefly.

"The knife might be less than unique, then, but still, it was found in the apartment, and it is a perfect match," John argued.

Monk was about to comment on the topic of fingerprints when, yet again, someone knocked on the door.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. (The universe was clearly trying to give the Doctor a heart attack.)

"Did someone order a Pizza?"

The door opened to reveal a short guy with a pizza and an incredibly fake moustache. Sherlock placed himself in front of John in case his newfound friend would get any bad ideas about facial hair. Castiel looked about as shocked as if he had suddenly stepped into an alternative tv-dimension world.

"Who the Helm´s Deep is that?" Dean swore. Jack Harkness was busy having fantasies about movies with questionable contents.

"We are not supposed to talk about it," Castiel said. This was clearly a response due to some now long gone conversation he had had at some point.

"Hiya, little bro!" the Pizza Man exclaimed, and waved to the uncomfortable man. "I brought food! Loads of ketchup, I know you like your vegetables!"

"Is ketchup a vegetable?" Castiel asked Dean.

"Oh Helm´s Deep, yes," Dean concluded, and was about to move forth and get more aquainted with the vegetable in question by grabbing the pizza, when Monk and Agent 86 both hastened to the door. They had very different reasons to approach the Pizza Man, though.

"Tell me, where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him!" Monk exclaimed, irritated over this clear breach of protocol (and horrified by the thought of bringing in finger food to the room).

"A balrog of Morgoth!" Agent 86 whispered at the same time. He was quite certain this was a fellow CONTROL agent (why else would he be wearing such an excellent disguise?), and therefore tried to exchange code words with him.

"What did you say?" the Pizza Man asked in confusion.

Agent 86 gave it another go. "They are taking the Hobbits to Isengard."

A short man with stripy hair and massive eyes heard this rather odd phrase, while he was passing by in the corridor. "Stupid, fat hobbitsss" he hissed, and went on in his search for the precious ring he had misplaced somewhere in the house.

Any further contact with the outside world was put to an end when the Attendant suddenly appeared and started shouting with a booming voice at the trickster-pizza-man.

"You. Shall Not. Pass!"

The Pizza Man disappeared faster than a group of dwarves can empty a larder. But his fans were convinced he would somehow return to them.

Just you wait for it!

Agent 44 in the trashcan *was* still waiting for it. Whatever it was. As long as it got him out of there. Soon. Please.


	9. a Very Short chapter ft a Very Short character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short dip into the FMA universe while the jury basically does nothing to get the plot to move forward

In an ideal world, our geniuses would have continued with the case at hand immediately. However, as Mycroft would have said, “the universe is rarely so lazy”, so of course they were distracted from their quest by a hundred different things. Or, as in Jack’s case, by the 300 things featured in a movie of that very name, which he started daydreaming about with a slight drool.

 

Outside the building, our first chance to get a strong female character in this story was approaching, but alas, fate (and probably the patriarchy) intervened and stopped this from happening by placing a very short, but surprisingly effective obstacle in her way.

Agent 99, ever loyal to her Maxie, was smuggling K-13 into the building when she encountered the short, very short, obstacle in question. The miniscule obstacle had a long blond braid, and an armor-clad companion, and he was immediately crushed by K-13 when the dog saw him.

K-13 decided the short human looked like a very nice resting place and jumped on top of him for a nap. It wasn’t a very impressive jump, considering the height (or lack thereof) of the boy, and wouldn’t have been a problem in and of itself, but it managed to scare the person in the armor enough that he flinched.

Now this flinch had yet another consequence, as it woke up a sleeping cat that was hidden inside the armor, making it let out a pitiful meowl.

It is difficult to say, in hindsight, who reacted first after this meow was let out: the fleeing armor; the shouting boy [I told you, no pets, Alphonse!] or the chasing K-13. The result was a merry chase around town that would undoubtedly have continued without pause for many hours, had not the superior of the boy turned up with his team to defuse the situation.

Sadly, this led to a small explosion, worthy of KAOS itself, agent 99 reflected. This explosion was caused by some pointed comments that triggered the boy’s, admittedly very short, temper, and soon sparks were flying all over the place. Agent 89 and K-13 made a strategical retreat to headquarters and promised themselves never to mention the incident to anyone.

 

Meanwhile, inside the building, McGee was looking out the window at the Northern Sparrow that fled the battlefield down below, as it did not want to risk getting Into the Fire. Somehow, this bird led McGee to think about torture and cancer and other very depressing things that would be fun to write about. But then again, who could possibly want to read about anything like that, he mused, and turned to thinking about feathered dragons instead.

At the other side of the room, the problem with the fallen Door was quickly handled by Gibbs and DiNozzo, who made a surprisingly efficient team once they actually tried to get some work done. Gibbs being skilled with wood work was almost overkill when it came to simply balancing the door against a wall.

The Doctor noticed their efforts. “You have redecorated!” he exclaimed.

“I don’t like it”, he told everyone who wanted to hear his opinion. That is, no one.

Someone who was actually eager for some redecoration of his immediate surroundings was agent 44, in the trashcan. But nope, he will continue to be neglected.

“Cas”, Dean was saying to his fellow juror, who was still standing close after saving him. “Personal space.”

Jack would have loved to join in the lack of personal space, but wisely spared his company any further comments.

Monk, who had used up his last tissue and was silently entering panic mode, completely forgot about the whole fingerprint business. Very conveniently, in fact, as I have no memory of where he was going with it. I guess we can rule out anything with six fingers, however, as he certainly would have remembered that!

 

Outside their little room, other things were going down.

Feeling very trapped in his old image, as if he had been spending months on end at the top of a tower, Gandalf the attendant decided it was time for a full make over. Thankfully, he had an old friend, who was definitely not in any way, shape, or form a love interest [shame on you Peter Jackson!], who could provide him with a brand new outfit and hairstyle in the blink of an eye. The Eagle Express Services were truly a marvelous solution to every problem!

All in white, the clothes were so blinding he caused three passer-byes to shield their eyes and reach for their weapons: an axe, a sword, and a bow, in turn.

However, being an attendant meant Gandalf basically had an army at his beck and call, and soon security had confiscated the weapons and brought the men in for further questioning by their boss. Gandalf did consider doing a very dramatic entrance to save the day, but right now, he wanted a smoke. And a word with security for letting the men inside in the first place! It’s not like they had access to invisibility cloaks, after all!

The only people actually interested in getting anything done with the case were Mr. Stark, the Sleuth, and his soon to be flat mate. (John had no idea about his new status as to-be-flat mate, yet. Sherlock had neglected to tell him.)

But before we hear what they have to say, you will have to wait another couple of years most likely. Oh the woes of a WIP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people are still reading this??? and giving kudos??? and cOMMeNtS?!!!!? now you inspired me to actually write on this story again O.O the tone is a bit more melancholy perhaps, but I do hope you liked it anyway!

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any character you want to add to this mess leave a comment and I just might make it happen :D (requires me being at least somewhat familiar with the character in question!)


End file.
